


Unconventional, Useful

by Artist_in_Space



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe- Powers, Angst, BAMF John Watson, Dorks, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Humor, Laughter, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes/ John Watson if you squint, They have powers called 'abilities' but I'm gonna be honest it's just 'quirks' or 'epithets', but just a smidgen I promise, but read as general, i love them, it's just them being dorks, or so i hope it's just soft, some Abilities suck and some are great and these two.... are secretive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:35:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28385619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artist_in_Space/pseuds/Artist_in_Space
Summary: The world underwent a phenomenon wherein people developed certain characteristics that weren’t associated with anything human-like. For example, some people were changing physically, being born with lizard skin or maybe being blessed with the power to control water.They called them Abilities. Some people who were fans of the superhero genre called them powers.Sherlock called them inconveniences.(No, it's not because he doesn't like his own Ability. It's not.)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 73





	1. Ubiquitous

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! Here's another fic that....is admittedly borne out of me wanting to write a crack scene but it ended up being 6k. Oh well.

“Name?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Age?”

“Thirty-five. Male. 183 centimetres, 10 stone. _Yes,_ I know I’m on the underweight side. Yes, I know my measurements, don’t make me go through it, make it easier for your life by just jotting what I’m saying. Hair, black, eyes, _Heterochromia Idris,_ I hope you know what that is. My oxygen level is at 90, which I know is ideal, and my pulse and heart rate is at 100 beats per minute and steadily declining because I might actually meet my end here.”

“Alright.” The nurse taking down his physical hummed, trying to be pleasant, but it was obviously a farce. This particular nurse had been there the last time that he had taken his physical, and it was obvious that she was chosen just because she seemed to not be overly bothered with his attitude.

Not that Sherlock cared, but it did grate his nerves that she was trying to insinuate _something._

“ _What?”_

“You haven’t told me one of the most vital things we take notice of.” The nurse, _Wendii, what a horrid name,_ raised her eyebrows.

“I’m not an idiot, unlike this whole procedure; if you would like to be more efficient, I suggest looking up my past documents. There is no need to ask me what my Ability is since it never changed, and never will; it’s a provided fact that it happens, so I’d rather end this exam and get back to my experiment.”

The nurse stared at him and then shrugged. “Alright, fine. Can we provide help to your Ability? Or your body, any hidden pains?”

Sherlock paused before puffing out in annoyance. “Nothing,” he buttoned up his coat and turned around, the ends floating dramatically in the air.

“It’s just merely _transport.”_

* * *

The world underwent a phenomenon wherein people developed certain characteristics that weren’t associated with anything human-like. For example, some people changed physically, being born with lizard skin or maybe being blessed with the power to control water.

They called them _Abilities._ Some people who were fans of the superhero genre called them _powers._

Sherlock called them inconveniences. Some people shouldn’t be _obviously_ given powers, especially when they were particularly passionate about the most infidel things—or, they weren’t mentally stable. One of the two was obviously bad, but then again, his overactive brain did love the beauty of those two qualifiers being mixed in a situation.

Hence, his love for crime.

Because crimes made by those with Abilities and those who are Nulled?

_Fascinating._

Truly fascinating.

That’s probably why Sherlock Holmes grew up devoting himself to reading Abilities and criminal methods—because, _obviously, **someone** _was going to.

* * *

“With all due respect, sir, but why do you always call the freak for these cases?” Sherlock heard as he crouched on the dead body on the floor. _Looks like strangulation at the first glance, as seen by the hand imprints on the neck._ “Everyone could see that the cause of death is blatant! Strangled to death, sir, and from preliminary investigations, the last one to leave this building from the CCTV coverage that the neighbour was the last one to get out of the room.”

 _A sixth finger, am I seeing that right?_ He peered closer, and felt a grin creep to his face, though he tried to tamp it down. _Not just a four, then._

“Sergeant Donovan, you know why we do it,” came Lestrade’s—and from the tone being perceived by Sherlock at this distance of care, somewhat exasperated—reply. “And honestly, while I trust you and the others, we just don’t detect things like Sherlock does, you know. We don’t have the extensive knowledge that he has that he helps employ here.”

Sherlock touched the upturned collar, curious. _Not quite damp. Acrylonitrile. A fabric that isn’t used for outings, meaning they were inside when they were killed; probably in the privacy of her home. Clothes can’t be located; was lost somewhere._

“ _Knowledge?_ For god’s sake, sir. If it’s just knowledge we have the bloody internet!”

Lestrade barked out a laugh. “Sergeant, please. If it was just that easy, we wouldn’t need any investigator; you said it yourself, if it’s so easy, then we wouldn’t have called Sherlock at all. But I have a hunch that it’s ways off from what we expect.”

 _It is,_ Sherlock thought as he sniffed the victim’s body; it smelled too familiar. _Thames River. Whoever killed this person had thrown her to the river, and then became guilty? Someone with awful guilt reprieve, then. Someone who knows her, probably didn’t mean to reach to the point of murder, but was trying to hide the body. However, why bring it out here, in the park? It wasn’t washed out by the river._

He slapped the victim’s face; he heard Lestrade’s cry and Donovan’s indignation over ‘desecrating the body’ but was immediately silenced when water leaked out of the victim’s mouth. _Wasn’t given resuscitation. Not that guilty, then; not an act done out of sentiment. A craving?_ He walked over the body and surveyed it as a whole, and saw the almost-reverent placement of the body, but he suspected not with care.

“Sherlock, bloody hell!”

 _She had awakened something in… him, probability is high for a male._ Sherlock narrowed his eyes and put it all together. _A man with six fingers, an admirer, stalker; went to her living area. Took a while, but she ran towards the river, meaning she knew him, somehow. Obsessed, was rejected; forced her to a chokehold and killed her in rage. Threw her to the Thames, flat is near enough. In a fit of panic, saved her._

Lestrade walked towards him, and he turned away. “Shut up,” he seethed, because he was _close_ in putting it all together.

_Most likely remembered the sentiment that she didn’t like him. Saw her die, she deserved it in his eyes. Brought her to the park for…_

_Recognition._

“Sir, did you just—he—!”

“Anderson, I understand but you know his methods—”

“No, we bloody don’t, sir!”

_Not the neighbour. Not someone from the building._

_Conclusion: the caller._

“Just because the freak is a bloody necro-clairvoyant doesn’t mean we have to put up with his crap!”

“He’d probably spout his _actual_ activities and tell us one day that he did it,” Anderson inputted.

“It’s the stalker that has been following her for weeks that she had filed complaint for but was probably rejected since NSY is incompetent,” Sherlock suddenly dictated as he stood up, staring at the body. It was droll to hear their bloody statements, and he’d rather investigate on his own. “You might be dealing with a beginning lust-murderer, lacks guilt. Check if the stalker has six fingers, or…,” he looked at Anderson’s face and was reminded about something else with six appendages. “Lemur hands.”

“What?” Lestrade blinked. “Wait, stalker, lemur—”

“Also, every day I hear a new suspicion about my Ability and it’s getting quite dull,” Sherlock pointed out with a sneer, raising his hand towards the street and nodding when a cab appeared. “Necro-clairvoyance? Please. You’re making me laugh.”

Then he entered the cab and set out to find the stalker.

_Bart’s Hospital._

* * *

He’s used to people calling his observations as his Ability.

Not that he ever needed to correct someone for assuming so; it was useful since they’d at _least_ take him seriously, even if some thought his ‘Abilities’ were freakish. He’s been told that his genius was his Ability, or maybe it's psychopathy in exchange for telepathy, _whatever that means._ He was no psychologist nor Ability expert, but that seemed a bit illogical.

He’s heard knowledge-storage as his Ability, which was an insult because he cultivated his Mind Palace by himself, Ability not contributing in any way. In similar vein, there was also ‘photography-information’ or ‘computer mind’ or whatever ghastly name those in the NSY have made up for the day, which was extremely idiotic since _eidetic memory_ has been a phenomenon before the Ability Era and the mind itself is like a computer.

Some people, of course, tend to the ‘supernatural’ descriptions, like necromancy, mediums, spirit talk, ‘third eye’. They call it creepy, horrible, unfeeling, blasphemous. Not that he _cared_ for all those adjectives, but those were the usual.

So, when Doctor— _Army_ Doctor John H. Watson—called his deductions, or in what people call it, his ‘Ability’ as _brilliant,_ he had to stop and stare at the man.

“You… _mean_ that.” Sherlock mused out loud, surprised at the difference of this particular man against the other people he’s met throughout his life. There was no lie, no pretending. Even Lestrade had freaked out and got incensed when Sherlock detailed his waning love life and impending divorce. He just revealed to this man that his family were a bunch of alcoholics because of their Ability (ethyl alcohol being burned through to make products), and that he was honourably discharged from military service due to his leg, shoulder and arm, and even if he was surprised and a little bit offended, said _brilliant._

There must be something on his face since John regarded him with a huff of laughter.

“Well, of course. It’s bloody amazing.” The man answered in lieu of his non-question. Sherlock’s mind was still abuzz with wonder when John said something, and he had to actively shake his head as if to remove the sound.

“Repeat that.” He ordered, cheeks pinking unwillingly when John’s lips lifted into a smile.

“What?”

“The thing—the thing that you said.”

John furrowed his eyebrows.

“You mean, ‘Ability, or you?’”

He hadn’t misheard.

 _John Watson is a mystery,_ Sherlock thought, suddenly realizing that the army doctor was something _more._

Because he’s never been asked that.

Not ever.

The last time he remembers being asked that was back in university, and that was just because it was a neurologist-to-be who had asked it. People all assume that his—‘abilities’ were Ability-related and it was refreshing and downright surprising that someone had actually asked it.

Sherlock, in the fit of mania apparently, made the decision to shake his head in dissent in confirmation.

John searched his face for something, and as if coming to a revelation about something that Sherlock Holmes didn’t know himself, giggled to himself. “Oh, the secretive flatmate. Don’t worry; if you don’t want to share your Ability, I understand.” There was no judgment in his tone, just a bit of wonder and intrigue.

Sherlock read between the lines: _John was either Nulled or was hiding his Ability. Similar to myself. A mystery._

John shifted in his seat, obviously wondering how the genius interpreted his statement. “But yeah. Your deduction—that was really, really fantastic.”

Trying not to show that he was _really_ pleased, he looked out of the window and stared at the kids in the bus that were apparently playing something that involved the cars. His flatmate seems to have a limited vocabulary, definitely not a Ability; but there was truly something special about John, something unique that would explain why Sherlock was so attracted to this man who seemed so normal yet actually hid a perceptive mind.

“Thank you,” Sherlock murmured, with as much sincerity he could inject in his voice because he really was grateful.

Someone who understood his apprehension with Abilities.

What a _wonderful_ flatmate.


	2. Unpredictable

John Watson was a mystery, and one that Sherlock intended to find out.

Yes, they’ve talked about not talking about each other’s Abilities, which Sherlock was _pretty_ sure that the ex-soldier had, but they didn’t agree on _trying_ to find out the other’s. Not that he’s asked blatantly. He’s tried observing his flatmate’s habits: from waking up six in the morning without fail, his way of cooking—and the one with the peas that he made two times from their time together as flatmates, his handling of a gun and his unassuming fashion sense.

John had a talent for making him review his actions. He’d murmur _a bit not good,_ when he started insulting a client of theirs for not noticing sooner that his home was being robbed and that the said robber was the man in the end of their street, or when his Ability-experimentation extended to looking in the loo when John was using it. Though, he’s been door-slammed for more than a few times, and threatened on the third, so he had learned that spying in the loo was _a bit not good_ in all aspects _._ Then again, there was this exchange:

_“Even for cases, John?” Sherlock had wondered, as he sat on the floor near the loo of their flat, waiting for John. “Surely some people use the loo to hide their transactions.”_

_It took quite a while for John to answer, but there was a laugh that had laced through it, making Sherlock smile. “Alright, you git. That will work, but bloody hell, not with me!”_

_That’s a good compromise. “Yes, John.”_

Sherlock also realized how vital John was in his Work. Six weeks in being partners—unconventional partners, since John juggled being a locum GP and his partner everyday—he discovered that he didn’t really know that much about Abilities. He’s always been annoyed by it, but his flatmate seemed generously knowledgeable about the subsections of Ability cataloguing. John called it ‘being informed since it’s required for the Ability Era, Sherlock, how would I diagnose people if I didn’t take into account their Ability’, which Sherlock (and New Scotland Yard) had previously disbarred in crime scenes.

It was pretty useful.

* * *

“Locked room, John, a locked room crime and I still don’t see it.” Sherlock seethed, staring—glaring, really—at the body on the floor. John stood next to him. “I can see that the killer had stabbed him on the side, which led to organ failure, and a serrated knife from the looks of it. This victim was obviously a chef, or someone in the culinary course, but I’ve seen through here that there was a chef outfit in his size and a hat that perfectly would fit on his head. The use of a serrated knife could be disregarded as someone taking a normal kitchen utensil but it was not taken here in his kitchen, suggesting that it was a planned attack. Someone who has intent, thus someone from work. However, our victim is a worker of Pho London, a restaurant that needs a large kitchen staff. So, which one of them? How did they get out? Where’s the murder weapon?”

Lestrade scratched his ear at the expansive explanation. “Honestly, that’s a lot of details…” He admitted, looking around the quite bare-bones house. “We can work with that.”

“But _how?”_ Sherlock simpered, because there was no sign of forced entry, and a locked room—which led to being reported by the _mailman_ of all people—had to have _some_ sign of disturbance. Frustrated, he walked out of the room and began sweeping the other rooms, gripping his hair in frustration when all he’d seen was a broken potted plant of all things _._

 _Away_ from any window or door.

John scratched his jaw as he paced towards Sherlock. The genius was eyeing the doctor for a moment, wondering what he would say—because John also had the knack for saying the most mundane things that would lead to the answer of the crime.

John opened his mouth. “That’s a fern.”

Or not. “Great observation,” Sherlock sneered.

John rolled his eyes. “Thank you, I meant, that’s a fern, with a broken pot.” His face twitched when Sherlock’s face didn’t change. “Ferns attract insects, and you know that there are times when animals knock over potted plants to obtain what they want to eat.”

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. “John—”

“What if the killer’s Ability makes them transform into an animal?” John wondered, shrugging. Sherlock stared at him in surprise and was already racing towards the locked room. “Lizard, probably. They like crickets and bugs. Lizards don’t really make a fuss when moving around—Sherlock!"

John arrived in the room in time to see the consulting detective pull out his Swiss knife and unscrew the grate on top of the couch. “ _There!”_ Sherlock gasped in glee when he pulled out a serrated knife.

John looked at Lestrade, who blinked rapidly. “How—”

“A transformation Ability,” Sherlock relayed, eyes bright and twinkling, but his gaze was for John only. “Someone in this man’s workplace that can transform into an animal, probably a lizard, or something small that can fit through the vents.” He ducked his head and turned around, deeming the case closed.

“Let’s go, John!”

“Right, inform us Lestrade if you need us!”

Lestrade nodded, laughing breathlessly. “Yeah, alright.”

* * *

John stayed longer as his flatmate, which still boggled Sherlock. His Ability must be tolerance, because the man had been hit on the face, fallen off the stairs, injured, and wounded far more times than Sherlock could count (a lie: at this time, it had been twenty-two) due to his incessant need to protect Sherlock… and _didn’t_ run away. The genius should’ve realized it when the man only berated him for his unorganized way of storing his experiments; John was extremely patient or tolerant.

When he had thought of it out loud, he was startled to hear John laugh at the assumption, even if he was still bound on a drain pipe. Kidnapped for the fourth time.

“No, that’s not it.” John waved his hand at his confusion, once Sherlock had removed the offending ropes. “Your eccentricities are fine, Sherlock Holmes, and I don’t think personality attributes are _Abilities._ Abilities manifest as powers or physical features, right? Me ‘tolerating’ you isn’t my Ability, idiot.”

“Then why…?” Sherlock murmured in genuine befuddlement. How did this jumper-clad man…?

“Sherlock, you’re annoying and a drama queen and positively the wildest flatmate one could have.” John enumerated, following the genius as he walked them towards the roads. He watched as the man raised his hand, calling a cab. “But you're a brilliant, kind, caring genius who tries to pretend otherwise. Honestly, _I’m_ still appalled that you still deem me as friend-material, out of ‘all’ the idiots in the world.”

A cab parked in front of them, and Sherlock regarded him with a glare. “Take that back, John.”

“No.”

“Yes. Take it back.”

“ _Nope._ ”

“You are not like all of the idiots in the world.” Sherlock grumbled. “You’re a jumper-wearing doctor and a soldier, an unassuming person who hides behind this façade that I still have yet to crack through. I don’t understand how you look so normal despite all the things that make you deadly.” Sherlock looked out of the window, not trusting himself to be honest if he could see John in his periphery. “You don’t get angry at me for…putting you in situations that are deadly.”

“We’ve established that I miss the war more than I should.” John simply said, flexing his fingers over the rope burns. “I don’t mind, you know. It’s not your fault, it’s theirs.”

Both of them went silent, before Sherlock hummed. “Your Ability isn’t being a magnet to danger, right?”

“No?”

“It would make sense.” Sherlock grinned impishly when John looked cross. “The rate of my crime’s danger level rose when I got to know you, John Watson.”

“And the way that you’ve changed how I look at details could be attributed to a Ability, Sherlock Holmes.” John countered as they pulled up to the NSY headquarters. “But it isn’t, and I think it works.”

The consulting detective looked at his blogger, and laughed genuinely.

If John’s Ability wasn’t tolerating him, then it might just be being the funniest and most delightful person that he’s ever met.

* * *

Time went on. Months passed.

They really weren’t… _hiding,_ their Abilities or anything; they just went through a silent agreement that there was no need to share one another 's Ability.

It didn’t really interfere with The Work, and it didn’t interfere with John’s GP work.

Sherlock found it ideal, but sometimes he wondered if he should share his Ability to John.

He had brought it up with Lestrade, in worry, which earned him an amused smile. _“John will tell you once he’s ready, and he seems to be an alright bloke, you know. He’ll respect you. Why don’t you ask him, if you’re really confused about it?”_

Then he did.

 _“You’ll tell me when you’re ready.”_ John had simply told him. Sherlock took that to his Mind Palace and stored it into one of the most illuminated rooms, which was strangely made up of a lot of things that John had said throughout the months that they’ve been flatmates.

When that time will be, he didn’t know.

(The time, it turns out, came in the most unexpected time, which meant it happened exactly how Sherlock thought it would happen: in a case.)


	3. Unique

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the reveal :D

Sherlock woke up to the lowered temperatures that his body was experiencing. His mind was groggy for a few minutes, but even through the haziness, he recognized John’s prone figure being dragged inside by a few nondescript people.

There was a trail of blood coming from his partner’s temple, and he realized that John might’ve put up a fight and was struck in the process.

“J-John,” he gritted out, wincing as his chest throbbed at the movement. The door closed with a grating noise, which seemed to rouse John for a moment.

They were caught by the growing underground organization, the Machiavellians, he knew. Sherlock had thought their methods were rudimentary, but efficiently done, yet predictable to a point. Sherlock had followed a set of clues that led him to speeding through to his ‘assumed drop-off’, but he had been too fast that he had left John.

That might be the reason why John was sent in second; he’d be receiving a talking-to later.

“John,” he murmured. His flatmate grunted slowly, and opened his eyes, meeting gazes with him.

“Sher—“, John called, and furrowed his eyebrows. “Y-You alright?”

Sherlock watched as the other man pushed himself to a sitting position, and rubbed his head. The man cursed for a moment, then crawled near him, placing a hand on his neck.

“Bloody Christ, you’re freezing.”

“We are, unfortunately, stored in a freezer.” Sherlock muttered through chattering teeth.

Then, he must’ve blacked out because the next second he was aware, John was putting on a black jumper on him, carefully patting his chest to check for injuries. Sherlock tried to hide his wince, but the doctor was unimpressed.

“I saw that,” John murmured. “It’s alright. I just think your ribs are bruised; nothing too bad.” John took him in his arms in an embrace, and patted his head. “You can rest for a while. They’ll be leaving us for a moment, and I’ll wake you when they’re inside. We’ll be able to escape—I told Lestrade that I was following your clues.” He sighed. “You’re an idiot, you shouldn’t have left me.”

“’m ‘n idiot.” Sherlock agreed, succumbing to sleep from the heat that John and the wooled sweater gave him.

* * *

There was a bang, and Sherlock’s mind came online abruptly.

 _“Fuck,”_ John spat out a spray of blood, but delivered an impressive uppercut that sounded a bit too loud in the silent freezing chambers. Sherlock scrambled onto the wall, shaking his head to clear out the fog of sleep that was clouding his mind.

His partner was fighting three against one, but he seemed to be managing, somehow. There were the distinctive cracks of a few bones, and maybe a few sprained ankles. The fourth man came out of nowhere, gun cocked out, and Sherlock let out a strangled yelp when he jumped and tackled John towards the floor.

Both of them winced at the impact. Sherlock pushed himself off the floor, fully intending to block the gunner’s line of sight before he shot, but then something landed on the man’s face all of a sudden; Sherlock used the distraction to slide underneath the man’s legs and locked it, slamming down his hand on the man. He heard the wince-worthy sound of a nose being smashed onto the floor, but the gunner still struggled to put up a fight, hitting Sherlock’s legs.

He bit off a wince and locked his legs, and in a few seconds, the gunner went limp.

Sherlock reached over for the gun, sliding it towards John who was trying to catch his breath.

“You alright, Sherlock?” The ex-soldier inquired, taking the G17 and checking the bullets; full cartridge, sixteen rounds. He hefted it and put it in his waistband, before walking towards the detective.

Worried when the man didn’t answer, he tapped his shoulder. “Sherlock?”

“I have a jumper. On me.”

John blinked at the random statement, and then cleared his throat. “Yes.”

“This is also a jumper.” Sherlock lifted the piece of clothing on the gunner’s head.

John swallowed uneasily, a laugh bubbling in his throat. “Yes.”

 _“John.”_ Sherlock looked up, and he looked like he was trying to stifle his laughter, and like he was constipated because he didn’t know if laughing at the moment was _a bit not good_. “Your…”, he stammered, “Your Ability?”

John schooled his face, and nodded solemnly.

In hindsight, maybe laughing out loud wasn’t the best response.

* * *

“Shut up,” John growled as he grabbed Sherlock’s arm, but his lips were twitching upwards. John had incapacitated the three people who had entered the room when Sherlock found himself laughing for how many minutes because it _all made sense now_.

Sherlock ignored his pained knee. “Your Ability is _summoning_ _jumpers?”_

“It’s useful, most of the time.” John muttered, displaying his point by summoning one and slamming it to an unsuspecting guard’s face, going in for a jump and twisting the material as he pulled down to the floor. The man tried to yell but his mouth seemed to be wired shut by the tying technique that John had done, and cutting off his oxygen. John untied the jumper—and Sherlock noted, a _Halloween-themed_ one, which made him chortle—and faced Sherlock.

“You’re a bloody arsehole, aren’t you?”

“Spooky, John?” Sherlock tilted his head. “And I thought your Ability was something that led you to needing adrenaline, John, just like how your family needs ethyl alcohol to fuel their Abilities.”

“Git.”

“The fighting style with jumpers is an impressive one,” he gave back earnestly. Sherlock picked up a crowbar on the side and sidled up to John, and walked to the side, John following him.

“Your knee.” John noticed in worry. “Sherlock?”

“Irrelevant.” Sherlock waved him off, but as if his body wanted to rebel, suddenly had to groan in pain.

“Shit, come here.” John helped Sherlock to the side and made him sit on the boxes, and examined the detective. “Not too bad, but we’ve got to address that later. Don’t put your weight on that leg if you could.”

“Impossible, unless we get to the road.” Sherlock surveyed the place. “And I imagine as it’ll be dark soon, avoiding surveillance might be harder by that time.”

The sun was rapidly setting, so that wasn’t much.

“Where the bloody hell are we, anyway?” John muttered, eyes darting around. “I don’t recognize this part of England.”

The detective nodded. “We’re out of London, I estimate somewhere in Southwest England. Probably Devon.” Sherlock squinted to the side, and noted the horizon. “Torquay, maybe. We have to get to the road if we’re to escape this establishment.” He pressed.

John worked his jaw and nodded. “There’s still a bit of distance before we could get any kind of transport… I don’t want you to aggravate that knee further. Oi! Stop moving! Rest for a while!”

Sherlock breathed in deeply, and sighed, because sometimes this man was as infuriating as him. “Captain and Doctor John Watson, who has a bloody _jumper summon_ Ability.” Sherlock stated seriously as he struggled to move. “Trust me.”

“I trust you, git,” John nodded in obvious exertion, propping up Sherlock in a proper carry, wincing as he himself ignored the pain in his ribs, “—what do you need me to do?”

Sherlock licked his lips and stared at the uphill landscape that they needed to trudge towards—and most likely, _John_ had to climb. “Bring me there.”

John followed his line of sight and blinked. “ _What—_ but we’ll have a better chance if we go through here through the dark—”, then he stopped, seeing Sherlock’s face. “Bloody hell, you madman. Right. Yeah, right. Okay,” he rotated his shoulders and grunted as he bent down, then hefted Sherlock on his arms.

Sherlock blinked as he was literally swept off his feet.

“ _John—”_

“Easier and faster this way, you nitwit. Think of this for payback for laughing at _my_ Ability.” John grinned as he started jogging upwards, trying to regulate his breathing. “Let’s go, let’s go.”

* * *

It took quite a while, but John made it, even despite all the whining that Sherlock did it.

Then of course, they should’ve expected the gunfire because it might as well happen at the end of their destination.

Amazingly, it was also their titular suspect, Conrad Jameson, also known as the man who had knocked Sherlock unconscious and was the one trafficking drugs.

“Are you _sure_ your Ability isn’t a magnet for danger?” Sherlock hissed, but then bit off a laugh when John winked at him and then started piling a huge number of jumpers as the emphatic Conrad Jameson started firing at them. And yelling bloody murder. “What are you—Oh, bloody hell. Please,” he just got out of laughing for a straight seven-point-five _minutes_. “ _John!”_

 _“Shut up, Sherlock!”_ John yelled back, but his back was shaking in laughter. Sherlock tried not to but then John’s ingenuity with his unconventional Ability proved useful when he slammed down the fortress and brought out his gun. “Shut up, I swear, Sherlock, oh my god, stay there!”

Then he ducked and rolled towards Sherlock and put them both on the (very soft) ground, and peered upwards. He grabbed a jumper and threw it in a direction that Sherlock couldn’t see from the festive fortress and jumped, and Sherlock could hear the loud ‘ _crack!’_ that emanated from the direction. Conrad kept slashing, however, and for a second, Sherlock caught the glimpse of the man’s knife being expertly placed around a jumper, and then John bearing upwards to incapacitate the crazed suspect.

The alarms blared in the warehouse, and John let loose a string of curses that impressed Sherlock.

“Now what?” John hissed, readying his gun as he supported him to a standing position. “Sherlock, this vantage point is great but I don’t think—”

“Ready for a getaway?” Sherlock injected, raising his hand.

“Getaway— _how?”_ John yelped, as he shot out a round and incapacitated one of the guards.

When the genius didn’t answer, John directed an inquiring gaze at Sherlock, who was exceedingly becoming redder. “I said—you alright?”

Sherlock stared at John, then the jumpers, then closed his eyes.

* * *

John didn’t know what to feel.

Sherlock was raising his hand like he was going to correct the sky because _no, you’re not actually blue, the light being dispersed and refracted by the water vapor in you, and the easiest to refract is the colour blue,_ and wasn’t speaking.

“It’ll take a moment.” Sherlock bit out, not opening his eyes. “Protect me.”

“As if I’m doing anything but,” John growled, elated when one of the guards tripped over the jumper fortress he made. He advanced forward and kicked one of the guards, dismantling him and taking his gun.

When it reached twenty seconds, he felt compelled to ask, but then Sherlock cracked an eye and glared at him. There was a humming on the side of the land, but he didn’t really pay attention due to the almost-adamant pose that his flatmate was striking at the moment.

Also, the swarm of guards was nearing, which seemed a bit arbitrary next to his flatmate.

“What are—what are you _doing?”_ John said exasperatedly, “I can’t fight them all—”

And then Sherlock’s eyes opened, and the glare became enforced. “Ready!”

“R-Ready?” Even if he was confused, he bent down and gagged their suspect and looked away for a moment from the guards. Sherlock made a noise—of _embarrassment? —_ which surprised John so much that he had to look back at the genius.

John blinked, then his eyes widened.

In the quite desolate area they’ve washed in, obviously designed to be a base of operations undetected by the authorities, was a black vehicle.

A _cab._

* * *

The driver was revving his cab like a maniac, and John was torn between laughing in the face of death or laughing at the incredulity of what he had just learned.

“Sherlock—your—”

“ _Not now, John!”_ Sherlock yelled as they were being chased by cars that were a bit too mafia-like for John’s liking.

John could see the other man’s cheeks reddening, so he dropped it for the moment—especially when gunshots were being deployed.

John protected the driver’s head— _real guy, real driver, real cab, bloody hell—_ and Sherlock yelled the directions to shortcut their trip towards London.

Then Sherlock paid the driver and pulled John out of the car, and ran. John winced as he watched as Sherlock grunted—the knee was giving him a bad time—and he pushed Sherlock to stop.

“ _What?”_

“I’m going to bandage your leg; this’ll take a moment so _shut it.”_

John summoned a jumper, and he realized that the knee he was bandaging was shaking again—Sherlock was trying not to laugh, _again._

“ _Shut up,”_ he growled as he tried to swallow his laughter, because his life was ridiculous, and this man was _ridiculous_. “Shut up, Sherlock, _shut up! They might hear us!”_

“W-We’ve lost them,” Sherlock admitted, and raised his hand again.

A cab immediately showed up.

John wheezed as Sherlock glared.

* * *

The trip back to their flat was a chaotic mess of five cab exchanges, which was probably made harder by relaying their latest locations to an irate Lestrade on the phone. The last cab exchange, however, was silent and almost anti-climactic.

Oh, but Sherlock knew that John has been trying to talk to him, from the constant clenching and unclenching fist. And no, he didn’t answer till they arrived at Baker Street.

John paid the driver, eyes wide, not even noticing the price that the driver rattled. _Bit higher for a fare from Devon,_ Sherlock thought, but John was still frozen as if he was still processing things as they got inside the building.

He cleared his throat, annoyed, and John met his eyes tentatively.

Sherlock met it with a glare, or he thought it was, until John just looked at him.

“So,” John started, unsurely, flexing his fingers on the door handle. “Um.”

“My Ability.” Sherlock mumbled, looking away. “It’s… it’s,” his lips curled, “—summoning a cab. Anywhere. I just have to be… be on the road, and raise my hand.”

Yes, the Ability that had earned him a teasing from his parents and his brother, which led to a lot of moments where he was so insecure that he’d rather _not_ talk about it. It wasn’t impressive, or brilliant, or amazing, from all the speculations that John made. That was it. It was one of _those_ Abilities, the unimpressive ones, the ones that can’t even be trained because it’s… circumstantial. He closed his eyes, waiting for the disbelieving and probably mocking laughter—when he heard a giggle, and a delighted, _brilliant!_

His head whipped towards John, who was alight in what seems to be pure joy, and Sherlock thought, _what?_

“That’s so bloody amazing!” John exclaimed, as if it was the best revelation in history. As if he actually— _liked_ the fact that Sherlock had such a specific and mundane Ability. “A cab!” John giggled even more, and snorted, and then bent to clutch his stomach, tears in his eyes. His tone was lilting—a tease, and the realization that John thought it was _amazing_ was earth-shattering for the genius.

John rambled on about how utterly _absurd_ it was and _no wonder you could call cabs so easily_ and _this is the best day of my life,_ and now he was shaking his head. “Bloody hell, Sherlock Holmes! Genius consulting detective with an Ability to summon a cab! And you thought my summoning was _ridiculous,_ you hypocrite!”

“Oh, cabs are _quite helpful_ with getaways,” he said in a tone that was more defensive than he should’ve, which set off John to another round of guffaws. “Shut up, John Watson, you only summon a bad fashion statement.”

The jumper to the face was not appreciated, but it sent them both to hysterics, laughter ringing through the halls of 221 Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap!


End file.
